


A Recurring Dream

by RV_Qkpndj



Category: Original Work
Genre: Eldritch, Gen, Horror, Lovecraftian, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23184493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RV_Qkpndj/pseuds/RV_Qkpndj
Summary: A Short Story About A Dream
Kudos: 1
Collections: A Collection Of Short Stories





	A Recurring Dream

I have been having the same dream lately. In it, I am lying in bed and hear a commotion down the hall. I begrudgingly leave my warm bed to investigate the sound and reach out for the door. The handle is unnaturally cold to the touch and I always recoil. Trying again I open the portal to a bizarre foreign landscape; gone is my home. I step out from my doorway in the cold empty desert before me. The door slams behind me and fades away into nothingness. Yet, I do not react. Instead, I turn and glide over the purplish sand. I find myself at the top of a high sand dune. There I drink in the view. The sky is split between night and day, both the moon and sun hang in the air. The temperature is conflicting one side hot the other cold. You would think there would be a breeze, a movement of air, to resolve the tension in the sky.

A shine glitters in the distance. It catches my eye and dazzles in the combined light of the heavens. I am always compelled to hover towards it and no matter how far away it is; I will always reach it in the blink of an eye. Every night it gets closer and closer. I am greeted with impossibly tall gates made from a dark and blued stone. The light refracts in an odd way. No matter how you look at it you will always face the gates. I stare at the gate. It shifts like a mirage. A strange fancy takes me. I must know if the gate is real! An urge so strong it practically throws me against the face of the stone. The pain in my sternum yells at me that the gate is indeed real. My hands dance along the surface its texture is mind shatteringly confusing. The stone is both smooth and rough! I could not comprehend the bluish stone. It is both alien and familiar. 

The gate opens. It always opens when the sun and moon are at the highest point in the sky. They almost kiss, almost. In my previous visits to this place this astrological paradox could take seemingly hours or in a few seconds. Never is it exactly the same each time. The air does not move with the swing of the stone. Beyond the dark stone gate is a city, half of it is buried below the lavender sands. Tall obsidian pillars shoot out of the sand towards the sky. They disappear as they reach towards the heavens. I never realize that I am moving on a determined path. I navigate through the strange streets of this long-abandoned place. I know where I am going. Everything is familiar to me like I have lived here before like I am visiting home again. The city center is sloped like a cup. Sand gathers at the bottom. A statue stands in the middle of the amphitheater. It is made in the same strange blackish stone. It glitters and sparkles like metal at noon when the sun is the roof of the world. 

Its pedestal is only half covered by the sand and I find myself before it. The outlandish runes carved into it are baffling. They trick the eye. A “b” can become an “u” or a number. My brain is racked and puzzled. I cannot focus on any of the letters. Staring at it for what may have been hours (or seconds or minutes), words start to appear to me. Eventually, I can make out an inscription, it reads:  
“Here, O Great Queen, Is Your Beautiful Visage!” 

The rest of it is scratched out and unreadable. The statue is eerie. It is hard to make out what it is supposed to be. It is a mix of a woman, a crab, coyote, and some unidentified creature. The craftsmanship of the thing is beyond masterful. It looks to be very real, so real it feels like it is staring at you. The eyes (?) follow you around. This is the only time I feel dread. This is the first time I feel the wind. The air is moving. A whisper finds itself in my ear. 

“Hello again, my little Prince,” the breeze greets.

The icy hands of fear tugs on my lungs. I know that voice. I try to deny I know it. But deep down I am very acquainted with it. I know it is behind me. I know she is there. I can hear the sound of sand crunching underfoot. 

“I love when you come back. It is ssoooo lonely here,” I can hear the smile. 

Her voice carries into my head. It is like silk and honey. I am a fly already caught in her web. I just do not want to admit it yet. I notice the smell. Like a dumpster sitting in the hot summer afternoon, rotting and festering. I force myself to swallow a gag. I hiccup as the pain travels around my throat. The air is not moving anymore. The smell hangs in the air. 

“Please never leave again. I want you to stay here. My Prince,” the voice pleads.  
Something grips my shoulder; I am too afraid to look down at it. A hot liquid bleeds through my shirt and stings my skin. More of that horrid odor fills my lungs. My body wants more oxygen but does not want the terrible smell! Please no more! Please! I cannot take it anymore. I do not dare move. 

“My Prince, admiring my form? Why don’t you turn around and let me kiss you?” her sweet voice requests. 

I know that I will turn around. But I want to run, to wake up in my bed. She is laughing in my ear. It is not laughing. It is a mockery of the sound. A cruel and horrifying imitation. It will haunt my dreams. It has haunted my dreams. I will refuse to sleep; I will die before I come back here! 

” You will always return to me, My Prince.” 

My body turns without my command. I never see what she looks like. The memory gets fuzzy like the static on a broken television. The feeling of rotten soaked flesh still invades my mind. I remember the petrifying, execrable, dread. My mind wishes to expunge the entire nightmare. I always awake at daybreak. The sound of her sardonic laugh a bare whisper in my head. I know I will return tonight. The city will get ever closer and the monster will get its way. I know what she wants. I will give it to her. I know I will. 

Excerpt from New Orange Township Police Report:  
Yesterday, Morgan G. Churchill, Age 29, jumped from Old Man’s Bridge in an apparent suicide. His body was found by a passing citizen. He didn’t have a history of mental illness and his family medical history doesn’t show any signs of suicidal tendencies. Interviews with family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors provide evidence that Mr. Churchill was acting strangely. Missing work, lacking sleep and being irritable. He was said to claim that a woman was stalking him. There is no evidence that he was in any relationship prior to his suicide. An investigation into his previous girlfriends turns up no evidence that they were involved in his untimely death. The Coroner will rule the death a suicide.


End file.
